Mica

In the palm: this chunk of rock
palpable as ruffling dawns
before Gaia, sky’s mists blown,
inland seas lapping, mountains
and rubbled talus wind-worn,
chafed by trillions of vast rains.

Stone: abstracted as pattern, 
stripes of time, pressed sediments
or gravels, stratigraphy
of eons the hand by weight
can’t grasp, feeling only rough
or smooth, though a sidelong glance
finds a seam of silicate
(mica), with just rim enough
to catch a glint of noon’s sun’s
striking flash against burial
as if someone had got lodged
between accretions—each edge
of hexagon stacked in sheets:
wafer, glint of persistence.